Tourists of the Apocalypse (4 page)

The elevator in the observation room suddenly dings. My breathing freezes as the doors slide open revealing a member of the
Catch Team
. At first he doesn’t see me, but as he searches for some bauble left in the
Observation Room
he gradually turns his head. The floor is littered with medical stuff. I watch breathless as his eyes trace the source back to me. Lowering the syringe, I wave with my left hand trying to look harmless. I have no doubt that the guy in a radiation suit is just as surprised as I am. Finding a legless girl sitting on the floor is not what he expected.

At first he puts a hand to the glass to get a better look. Once he is sure it’s just me, he opens the door. His radiation badge identifies him as
Bernard Willis
. His eyes give away his confusion, but then seem to clear.
Does he think I am the Fail Safe
?

“Are you okay,” he shouts, his voice muffled by the radiation suit.

Glancing to my left, I see the handmade gun. It’s at the periphery of my reach from where I am leaning against the wall. I doubt he will hand me a gun, but then I realize that it doesn’t look like a gun to anyone but me.

“No, help me,” I whine, reaching for it.

He pauses, looking from me to the prosthetic weapon. Sweat trails off my forehead as seconds pass with his hand wobbling between helping me or demanding more information. I drop my right hand, hiding the syringe in my lab coat pocket.

“Please,” I moan, tapping on my glowing radiation badge. “I feel sick.”

The badge is solid red, a symptom of being down here so close to the reactor. He stares at the badge and then without hesitation hands the gun to me.
Why are people so unbelievably gullible?
Smiling, he puts out a hand to help me up.

“Let’s get you out of here.”

“Thanks,” I shrug, putting the barrel of the gun to his chest as he leans over me.

When I pull the trigger the ceiling hanging above is painted crimson.
Bernard
flies back and winds up face down ten feet from me. Blood trails out and trickles to the left side of the room. Whoever leveled this floor was off a bit. This offends me as an engineer but isn’t relevant now. I expect to feel better after killing someone, but do not. I lean the gun against the wall and fish in my pocket for the morphine.

+00:05:24

Holding the syringe in my lap, I watch the clock tick up.
My entire life is like a dream about a thing that never happened.
Finding no reason to continue feeling bad, I am just about to plunge the needle into my thigh when an electrical hum fills the room. My hair suddenly stands up as if I touched the purple ball at the science museum. There is a crackle and I hurry to slide my sunglasses down from the top of my head. A brilliant flash explodes from the center of the room. Blue sparks shower down on me.

“Better late than never,” I gulp.

Present day, West Texas…

I am jarred from sleep by the slam of his truck door. Rolling out of bed onto the floor, I scramble in bare feet to my bedroom window. Jarrod’s rusted red 4x4 sits in the driveway, one tire on the grass. My mother’s boyfriend is most likely drunk as that’s the norm. I pull on my canvas sneakers and slip into the second floor hallway. The front door bangs against the wall as he stumbles in, dropping his work bag. I manage to get to the bathroom and close the door halfway before his boots hit the stairs.

“Missy,” his voice echoes from the entryway. “I ain’t seeing any breakfast.”

The window in the bathroom pushes up with ease. I have spent the last six months scraping the dried paint out of the gullies and smoothing the wood. I creep slowly out onto the grey shingles of the roof, pushing the glass down behind me. My escape nearly complete, I slide to one side of the window and press my back against the uneven wood siding. I can feel the vibration of Jarrod’s work boots thumping on the stairs.
It’s always better if he doesn’t see you.

“Dammit woman,” echoes from inside the house as the bedroom door is pulled open violently and the knob slams into the wall.

The ensuing argument goes on for at least ten minutes, ending in my mother going downstairs to fix breakfast. No plates or punches were thrown today, making this a good Saturday.
You don’t want to be here on a bad one.
In an effort to keep the positive trend going, I slip around the side of the house on the steeply angled roof. Once there, I use the fireplace to climb to the ground. Every third brick protrudes on the corners and I am unsure if this was part of the design, but in my cases it’s a blessing.

Our house sits at the end of a cul-de-sac. It used to be a normal street, but at some point they put in a drainage ditch and rounded it off. The pavement now dead ends into a circle turnaround. The houses on the straight section leading in are all vintage two story jobs like ours. The three single story ranch homes recently built on the end are brand new. There were never any
For Sale
signs out, but a guy moved into the middle house a few weeks ago. Walking along the side of the house, I see a car in the driveway. There is one new un-occupied house between ours and the car, leaving me squinting my eyes to see the vehicle clearly.

“Wholly smokes,” I utter upon identifying it as a Porsche.

The home’s new owner drives a green truck, but always parks it in the garage. There is a bright yellow 911 sitting in the driveway now. The only reason I can identify the make and model is from reading tattered copies of
Road and Track
in my dentist’s waiting room. A black plastic fin grows off the trunk, a feature I recall the magazine referring to as a
Whale Tail
. The fin makes the car at least thirty years old, although it looks brand new. The only other remotely sporty car on the street is a dented silver mustang owned by Dickie Bennet up on the corner.

Dickie suffered a minor head trauma while working at the cement plant and has a tendency to hit things when he parks. Jarrod also works at the cement plant, but Dickie doesn’t come around our place much. Last time he did, Jarrod called him retard from the front porch, then threw a beer bottle at his car. I cannot imagine how that relationship works down at the cement plant.
Adults are complicated.

Taking a seat on the front steps, I watch the paperboy toss papers at the front doors of the houses down the street. When Jerry gets to my house he rears back and lets a rocket fly. I’m ready for it and manage to knock it down. Seeing that I nearly caught his toss, he gives me a thumbs-up and pedals away. He’s fifteen, older than me by a few years, but has always been decent to me at school. His parents aren’t divorced, but his dad isn’t shy about roughing up his mother. We share this unfortunate common ground. His father also works at the cement plant.
Is there something about that job that induces wife beating?

The dented aluminum thermometer nailed into the porch post reads 82 degrees, which suggests another scorcher. It was in the 90’s the past few days, not unusual for July, but hot just the same. I take the time to neaten up my shoe laces tied in haste during my escape. Nearly done, I hear a screen door creak open from the direction of the Porsche.

“The plot thickens,” I whisper as a stunning woman exits the door.

Tall heels click on the concrete as she moves. An impossibly tight dress, that’s far too short for this neighborhood, leaves little to the imagination. I’m caught staring at her when she looks up and smiles. Unable to muster words, I lift a hand and wave weakly.
Where did she come from?
She tosses her purse in the car casually. The screen door opens again and the guy leans in the doorway. He’s wearing a tee shirt and faded jeans, his hair looking like he just rolled out of bed.

“We on for next week?” he calls out.

“I don’t know. You’re kinda out of my regular service area.”

To this he shakes his head and chuckles. “Anything I can do about that?”

She puts a hand on the roof of the car and tilts her head in thought. Even at this distance I can hear her long nails tap on the top of the car. “Throw in a car wash next time and I will waive the delivery fee,” she shoots back in a playful way.

“Done,” he replies, nodding at her. “Drive safe.”

“No promises.”

With this, she bends her long legs at the knees and slowly removes both shoes, tossing them onto the passenger seat. Using a hand to hold her dress against the back of her thigh, she slips gracefully into the yellow piece of rolling art and slams the door. The engine roars to life, breaking the silence of the morning. She backs out of the drive and then whips her car around in the circular dead-end and roars past me. Down the street I see her swerve around Jerry and disappear from sight. I’m so focused on the car that I don’t notice the dude walking to the end of his driveway to gather his morning paper.

“Hey kid.”

I turn, startled.

“Wanna make twenty bucks?”

I nod, but remain silent.

“What’s your name?”

“Dylan,” I sputter, standing up.

Seemingly unaware of his scruffy appearance, he walks barefoot across the lawn of the un-occupied house between us. His feet rustle in the grass as he comes all the way to the edge of my driveway then pauses, tapping the paper on his thigh.

“Nice to meet you Dylan. It looks like we’re neighbors now.”

More nodding from me, unsure what to say.

“I’m Graham. Are you by chance going be here next Saturday morning?”

Again I nod, standing frozen on the front steps.

“I need someone to wash that lady’s car next Saturday morning. You’d have to get out here by seven and have it done by eight. Think you can manage that?”

“Sure,” I affirm, finally finding my voice.

“Here,” he grunts, digging in his pocket and coming back with a wadded up handful of bills. “Get some soap, sponges or whatever you need.”

I walk cautiously down the drive and into the grassy area between houses. He holds out a twenty-dollar bill and wiggles it for me to take. To me it’s a fortune and I hesitate.
Who is this guy?

“Here, take it and get whatever you need. Just do a decent job and I’ll keep you on retainer,” he jokes, but I don’t laugh. “Take it kid, and get yourself a sense of humor while you’re at it.”

I nod and accept the money. The bill is wadded up, but still like a gold bar to me.

“Be done before eight and I’ll pay you after the lady goes,” he instructs. “We good?”

I nod aggressively to show my enthusiasm. My exciting morning is suddenly interrupted by reality.
There are no happy endings on Oakmont Street.

“Get your ass in here,” Jarrod bellows from the porch.

I was unaware he was listening in the doorway. He stands on the porch in a sweaty wife beater, one arm on the post exposing a hairy armpit. I shuffle back to the front door, glancing over my shoulder once to smile at my new friend. Graham is gazing past me, wearing an unhappy look.

“You can wash my truck right now you little turd,” he growls, a beer bottle in one hand.

When I reach the porch, Jarrod is staring at Graham. His bloodshot eyes dilate and his dull expression suggests he’s trying to place our neighbor, but can’t. We all stand there for a moment before the silence is broken by my mother’s voice.

“The eggs are ready.”

“Keep your panties on woman,” Jarrod bellyaches, then turns back to Graham. “What are you looking at pretty boy?”

“Nothing,” he replies dismissively. “Absolutely nothing.”

“Good, then piss off outta my yard.”

“I’m not in your yard,” he counters calmly from the grass to the left of our driveway. “This is my yard.”

“How ya figure?”

“This is my house,” he insists, pointing at the empty house between ours and his. “This one here, the middle one and the one on the other side.”

“You bought all three,” Jarrod challenges him, tipping up the beer while keeping an eye locked on Graham.

“Not just me, but some friends of mine. Try to keep your truck off the lawn,” he pokes. “It lowers our property values.”

“Piss off,” Jarrod bellows grabbing me by the shirt collar and dragging me inside.

Once inside he pushes me away and scowls. “That guy give you money?”

“Yeah, but—.”

“Give it over,” he barks, holding out his hand.

When I shake my head he slaps me on the side of the head with an open hand, ringing my ear. Before I can pass it over he grabs my hand roughly and takes it. After a quick look to see how much it is, he shoves it into the front pocket of his jeans.

“Now you get your butt out there and wash my truck,” he orders, pointing his beer bottle at the door. “And don’t go talking to that guy again.”

“What guy?” my mother asks from the kitchen.

“Your son made friends with the frigging pedophile next door,” he complains and turns to go eat.

I’m left standing there with a hand over my flushed red ear. My thoughts not so much on Jarrod, but how I am going to get the items needed to wash the yellow Porsche next Saturday.

“My truck’s not getting any cleaner with you standing there,” Jarrod barks from the kitchen.

I should be more afraid of Jarrod, but this morning I am far more consumed with thought of the new neighbor.
How does he know that beautiful woman with the Porsche?

…

The next Saturday, Jarrod barely makes it through his shift and he comes home before seven AM. In my experience, this if often a result of a hangover, but today he seems genuinely ill. Either way, this is good for me as I can wash the neighbor’s car without him interfering. In a stroke of luck, Jerry had inquired about the Porsche. When I told him the story he agreed to loan me ten dollars for supplies. Jerry is saving for college and was very clear about being paid back promptly. Apparently, a guy has to deliver a lot of papers to get an education. I had a brief stint delivering papers myself. Of course, within a week Jarrod backed over my bike with his truck, thus ending my budding journalism empire.